Page 84 of Riot's Thorn
As I ride through the city, my eyes grow heavy. I’m exhausted and need some sleep, but there aren’t enough hours in the day. If Parker is at the cabin, I’m there, watching her and keeping her safe. The only time I don’t stay close by is when she’s at the lawyer’s because there’s no way they’d let me in, so I use that time to sleep. But it’s only a couple of hours here and there. I don’t know what she decided to do with the company, but she has to be wrapping things up soon, and then what? Will she be at the cabin all day?
Today is different than all the other days, though, because it’s her dad’s funeral and memorial. After putting on a pair of clean black jeans, a black T-shirt, and my cut, I ride right to the cemetery and park on the opposite end from where he’ll be put to rest. She’ll never know I’m here, but it felt right to dress up the best I can with what I own.
Thankfully, there are a lot of trees and manicured bushes at the rich folks’ cemetery, giving me choices for hiding spots. The cemeteries we’ve buried club members in are in the desert on the outskirts of town, where the only thing to hide behind is a tumbleweed.
People start to arrive half an hour later. Drivers in nice suits with dark sunglasses open the doors of blacked-out SUVs and luxury sedans to help the wealthiest people in the area out of the car. The women all wear large-brimmed black hats to keep the sun off their skin because heaven forbid they develop a sunspot. The men have sunglasses and black suits on, theirheads on a swivel, always looking for someone more important than themselves.
Then, a limo pulls up, and instead of the driver getting out to help, Roland steps out and offers Parker a hand.Asshole. I push off the tree I’m leaning against and take in how beautiful my woman looks. Her dress has black floral lace from shoulder to shoulder and up to her neck, where there’s a keyhole cutout that ties at the top. It’s short-sleeved and fitted until it flows out at her hips, ending mid-calf. Her shoes are flats, a wide strap circling her ankle.
Fuck, she looks good, even if she has contacts in and she’s not wearing her cute as fuck glasses. Her hair is slicked back into a low bun, showing off her long neck that I love wrapping my hand around and feeling the flutter of her heartbeat under my palm. She isn’t wearing a hat, but she has large black sunglasses on to hide her eyes, probably so no one knows a tear won’t be shed for the man she called Dad.
Fucking Roland offers her his elbow, and she takes it, allowing him to guide her to the front row of seats shaded by a large vinyl canopy. A shiny black casket sits above a hole in the ground, decorated with flowers and ready to be lowered.
People swarm Parker, no doubt offering condolences, and Roland stays at her side, offering her a bottle of water after ten minutes in the heat. I wouldn’t have thought about bringing water. The only things I’d have on me are a flask of whiskey and a cigarette.
I can’t deny they look good together. He’s a few inches taller and obviously spends time in the gym. His dark skin next to her pale skin is a beautiful contrast. It’s clear by the way he places a hand at her lower back that he wants her. No man feels comfortable touching a woman there unless he has intentions.
If I allowed my demon out right now, I’d hop on my bike, drive right through the cemetery, and skid to a stop in frontof them. I’d break Roland’s stupid fucking hand into a million pieces for daring to touch her and gouge his eyes out for looking at her like he wants to fuck what’s mine. Then, I’d lift Parker onto my bike and ride away.
Leaning against the tree, I watch as another limo pulls up. The man who steps out has my hackles rising. Bart Banks steps onto the blacktop and looks around, his chest all puffed up like he owns everything his eyes touch. Seconds later, he’s swarmed by little worker bees who lead him over to an open chair. People practically trip over themselves to talk to him, and his assistants constantly lean in to remind him of everyone’s name because Bart Banks can’t be bothered to remember things like that.
Thankfully, he stays near his seat and doesn’t go anywhere near Parker. Fuck Roland; he’s a nuisance more than a danger. Bart is dangerous, and I’d risk anything to keep him away from her.
The funeral is boring, just some religious schmuck droning on and on. Even though I can’t hear it, I’ve been to enough funerals to know he’s blabbering about God and the afterlife. A man who must’ve been a friend of her dad’s speaks next and has the crowd offering polite chuckles. Then it’s Parker’s turn.
I wasn’t sure if she’d speak. I know she has a lot of good memories with her dad, but they were tainted once she found out who he really was, so I’m curious what she’ll say. I hate that I can’t get close enough to hear. Maybe I can find a copy of her notes on her phone later.
After that, the casket is lowered, and people take turns shoveling dirt into the hole. That’s a tradition I don’t understand. Symbolism tends to go over my head. I find it pointless and a waste of energy, but I understand people need things like that for closure.
Parker doesn’t hang out to talk to anyone or get any alone time with her father one last time; she just tosses the dirt in andallows Roland to lead her back to the car. Halfway there, he takes her hand, and she allows it. My blood boils, but I hold myself back. It’s not the time to teach him a lesson, but it’s coming. No one touches what’s mine.
She slides into the back seat of the limo before the douchebag follows. The tint is too dark to see what’s going on inside, which he should be grateful for because if I saw him touch her anywhere else—or even worse, kiss her—I’d lose my shit. The limo pulling away is my cue to leave, so I walk back to my bike and take off out a different gate than everyone else.
The next stop is the mansion, where the memorial is being held in the back garden. Tents have been erected, tables and chairs spread around, and a giant portrait of Parker’s dad sits front and center with flowers placed artfully around the frame. This asshole doesn’t deserve any of this. Matter of fact, he deserves a death worse than the one I gave him. He should’ve been buried alive in the desert.
I’m lucky enough to know the layout of the property, so I walk through the servants’ entrance in the back and make myself comfortable in a second-story bedroom. No one stops me or even looks twice. Most of the time, if you look like you know where you’re going and that you belong, everyone accepts it.
Parker has changed into black wide-legged pants and a dark green, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. She looks years older than she is, and I hate it. All the women here, regardless of age, look the same. They’re wearing the same clothes, hair back in the same style, with the same perfect posture.
This isn’t Parker. She’s vibrant and unique. She’s quizzical and smart. She likes relaxed clothing and wearing her big glasses. She’s young and innocent while still deeply interested in hearing other people’s life experiences so she can understand what makes them different. It pisses me off to see her with these fake assholes.
The only thing keeping me rooted in place is knowing she’s mine, and soon, she’ll be back with me. And once she is, she’s never leaving again. The question is, will she come willingly?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PARKER
If I have to smile through one more anecdote about my father, I’m going to scream. It takes an inhuman level of restraint not to stand on a table and inform everyone of the things the man we’re all gathered here to celebrate actually did.
Roland is the only reason I’m still on my feet. Throughout the last two hours, he’s supplied me with electrolyte-infused water and even made me take a ten-minute break to eat something while he kept the crowd at bay. And during the funeral service, he was so kind to offer support and hold my hand.
I thought maybe Riot would show up. I was hoping he would anyway. The gift he left me this morning was a black rose with a single thorn. I might be reading too much into it, but it felt like he was telling me even on my darkest of days, he still thinks I’m beautiful and have enough strength to fight. In a strange way, it was exactly what I needed to get through the day.
“Parker, you remember Mr. Banks,” Roland says, motioning to the tall, older man in front of me, whom I know very well. The hairs on my arms stand on end, and an uneasy feeling settles in my gut.
“Parker, it’s good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” Bart envelopes me in a hug that sickensme to the point that tears prick my eyes. Thankfully, I can blame it on emotion over my dad as I pull away.
“Me too.” They’re the only two words I’m able to get out.
